


Steam Rises from the Body

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 1950's AU, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Korean War, M.A.S.H au, M/M, Medical Procedures, Military, Minor Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Racism, Surgeons, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: Peter and Stiles are surgeons in a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital near the front line of the Korean War.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 33
Kudos: 402
Collections: Steter Secret Santa 2019





	Steam Rises from the Body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fkajackclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fkajackclaw/gifts).



> For Jackclaw!! I was so happy I got you lol, I hope you like it!!
> 
> The title comes from that one line by Father Mulcahy that Fucks Me Up every time.   
> 
> 
> _"When the doctors cut into a patient and it's cold, the way it is now...steam rises from the body...and the doctor will- will warm his hands over the open wound. How could anyone look on that and not feel changed?"_

“Hey. Stiles.”

“Ungf.”

“... Captain Stilinski?”

“Ngh.”

“Stiles, come on, wake up.”

“Mmph.”

“It’s zero hundred. It’s your shift.”

“Unnn. No thank you.” 

“...”

Corporal Dunbar looked helplessly over at the door as Peter entered the dark tent, a dusting of snow swirling in at his feet. With a sigh, Peter took pity on him and came over to shake Stiles. 

“I’ve got it Liam,” he said, beginning to dig through eight layers of blankets piled on the cot until he found a shoulder. “Your adoring fans await, Doctor Stilinski,” he said in a singsong. “They’re so excited that they’ve stopped throwing roses and started throwing organs. It shows more dedication.”

Stiles finally poked his nose out of the covers. 

“Can they throw coffee instead?” 

“I’ll ask, but some of them are so eager they’ve arrived with their guts already in hand.” Peter yawned, and his tone passed the wafer thin border between black humor and deadly serious as he continued. “One kid was holding his intestines in when I got to him. Twelve perforations. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?” 

Stiles nodded, eyes still closed as he swung his feet out of the cot and into the freezing cold air of their tent. Liam breathed a sigh of relief and, duty fulfilled, ducked back out into the windy night. 

Peter stumbled two steps over to his own cot and did something between lying down and collapsing. Stiles managed to get his boots and second coat on before he had to open his eyes to locate his missing scarf. He found it under his pillow, and also found Peter completely passed out on top of his covers. 

Stiles gazed sleepily at him as he wrapped his scarf around his face, and then finally hauled himself onto his feet. Before his covers could lose too much heat, he flipped them over on top of Peter, watching as the unconscious tension started to fall from his face. Stiles briefly debated pulling his boots off for him, but decided it was cold enough to warrant leaving them on. Instead, he pulled the covers up as high as he could without accidentally smothering Peter and, after a hesitant glance around the empty tent, gently brushed his hair away from his eyes before heading out into the night. 

The cold was bitter enough to bite every centimeter of exposed skin, and served to wake him up more thoroughly than a handful of coffee beans. He hurried through the pitch dark camp, glad that at least the temperature had frozen the mud between snow patches into something that wasn’t trying to suck in his feet as he walked. 

“Halt!” 

A shadowy figure appeared from around the corner of a tent, gun raised. Stiles stopped, stomping his feet a little to keep the blood circulating.

“It’s just me, Malia.” 

“Sure, that’s exactly what you’d want me to believe if you were a body double spy. What’s the password?”

“If I’m a body double spy, then who’s to say I didn’t capture the real Stiles and interrogate him for the password?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

Malia scoffed underneath her own scarf, propping her rifle on the ground so she could lean on it. 

“Yeah right, Stiles would never give up the secret password.”

“He would if we promised him a space heater.”

Malia gasped. 

“But that’s not fair! You can’t bribe him with his one weakness: literally any type of simple convenience!”

Stiles laughed a little as he started walking toward the surgery again. 

“Haven’t you heard?” he said as he passed Malia. “That’s just exactly the kind of bastard us Bad Guys are. Have a good watch, Wily Coyote.”

Stiles continued, moving a little faster as the wind started to push through his many layers, passing dark tents and darker horizons. 

“You’re late!” was the greeting barked at him as soon as he entered the recovery ward of the surgery. Stiles didn’t bother looking up at Whittemore.

“I’m also sexy, but I don’t see how either of those things matter right now,” Stiles replied lazily as he shrugged off his coats and soaked in the warmth of the room. “Unless you want to  _ make _ it matter,” he continued, peering around the coat rack to leer suggestively at his fellow captain. 

Jackson rolled his eyes. 

“It’s relevant because I was supposed to be out of here five minutes ago! If you can’t be punctual-”

“They’ll kick me out of the war?” Stiles interrupted, going to check the chart of the new patient Peter must have put to bed. “Lord Jesus no, what a shame that would be.” His tone was dry enough to soak up every ration of gin in the camp.

“Listen up smarta-”

Stiles ignored him.The kid’s blood pressure was stable, temperature within normal ranges. Perfectly healthy, except for the gut full of patched up holes. 

“-Are you even listening to me?!”

“Absolutely not,” Stiles responded absently. “Do you have any useful notes on the patients, or are you just giving me a preview of your phone sex operator voice?”

With a huff, Jackson tossed his clipboard down on the desk and stormed over to the coats, furiously tugging on enough layers to get back to the tent.

Stiles went back to ignoring him as he checked in on all the other patients. Everything was fairly quiet, especially after Jackson finally slammed the door shut behind him. One patient needed more IV fluids, and a bit after that another needed some assistance falling back asleep after a nightmare. Other than that, quiet.

Even in the middle of a war, there are moments of stillness. 

A little after five a.m., though, that ended.

“Incoming wounded, incoming wounded!”

Like one of the bullets that brought patients to him in the first place, Stiles shot over to scrub up. He watched Liam and Malia work together to get the first soldier on the table. Stiles could see from the sink that it wasn’t pretty. 

He barely noticed enough to nod when Peter and Jackson returned to the surgery, followed shortly by Colonel Argent. The mess of arteries and viscera spilled open in front of him took all of his attention. As soon as he finished that one, another body replaced it, with the same wounds in different places. He sewed up that one too, only for a third to appear under his knife. 

_ Wind up little soldier man, with a scalpel instead of a rifle, and a bloody apron instead of a uniform. _

Stiles looked up at the rest of the room for a moment to breathe. 

It appeared Lydia had taken up anesthesia for Jackson after triage. Colonel Argent worked as steadily as ever, speaking quietly to his nurse. 

Peter glanced up from his table too, meeting Stiles’ eyes with understanding before looking back down. 

“You know, with this weather, we’re in a prime position to find out whether cryogenics is possible or not,” he said into the operating room at large. 

Stiles felt a small part of his gut untwist. He returned to his patient. 

“Are you volunteering?” he bounced back. 

“According to Major Whittemore I’m already brain dead,” Peter answered, adding a quiet  _ clamp here, thank you, _ to his nurse before continuing. “If we really want to save the best and brightest minds of our generation for the future, Whittemore is the only choice. After all, all we need to keep is his head.”

“It is the biggest part of him,” Stiles agreed. 

“Will you two shut up?” Jackson hollered from his table.

“Settle down boys,” Argent said sedately without pausing his movements. “No one’s doing any cryogenics in my camp. I’d have to talk to too many career military men to get the supplies for it. More than two generals gives me hives.”

“Sir, aren’t  _ you _ career military?” Jackson asked, bewildered. 

“Exactly.”

Stiles chuckled, feeling just the smallest bit lighter again. 

“No one knows the circus better than one of it’s clowns,” Peter added. 

“Excuse you, that’s Colonel Clown to you,” Argent said sternly, once again without a single pause in his work. 

Stiles finished his last surgery minutes behind Peter, only just barely managing to not fall into a post-op bed with the patient. Instead, he trudged over to the laundry. 

“Hey, help me peel off this surgical gown,” he called to Peter. 

“If only by ‘surgical’ you meant ‘evening’,” Peter answered as he helped to peel down the blood-stained sleeves. “And if only we were at the beginning of an hours long marathon of physical activity instead of the end.” 

Stiles balled up the fabric and tossed it into the basket. 

“But dear, would you respect me in the morning?”

“I don’t respect you now.”

“Well if I have nothing to lose, then by all means.” Stiles gestured ahead of him to the coat rack. Peter wiggled his eyebrows with as much effort as he could muster. 

“I’m not sure where you’re headed with this, but it seems kinky. I’m into it.”

As Stiles and Peter stumbled out into the bright light of day, the shock of the temperature change woke them up just enough to keep them on their feet until they reached the tent.

After the door clanged shut behind them, the first thing Stiles did was cram the little stove full of as much fuel as it could handle. Peter hovered above it, sticking his hands as close as he could without lighting himself on fire. When Stiles arose, he stepped right up next to him and pressed their sides together. 

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes as the fuel began to catch, raising the temperature of the tent slowly and far too little, but just enough to remind them of their exhaustion.

“... Jackson?” Stiles eventually grunted. 

“Lydia’s tent,” Peter answered in a mumble. 

Stiles nodded sleepily, and without another word pushed his cot right up against Peter’s and then climbed under the covers. When Peter didn’t immediately join him he stuck a glaring eye out of his blanket cave. 

“Well?” he demanded. 

Peter finally huffed an exhausted approximation of a laugh and burrowed in too, pulling the blankets over their heads and letting out a hiss when Stiles’ cold feet pressed against his shins. There was a heavy beat after Peter settled, and then-

“I said  _ Jackson _ is at  _ Lydia’s _ tent,” Peter reminded pointedly. Stiles opened his eyes to look at him steadily for a moment, and then scooted closer, slinging an arm over Peter’s waist and pressing his face to his chest. 

Stiles sighed out a handful of the horror he’d partaken in during the last six hours. Silently, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to Peter’s clavicle. 

They slept.

* * *

Peter tapped a bit of frost from the makeshift still, wondering if he could claim the resulting gin as a kind of seasonal specialty. 

“Knock knock!” 

“Answer answer!” 

“Oh shut up,” Malia said, barging into the tent with a dog collar in hand. “You boys have a celebratory drink for my latest and greatest idea?” 

“Always,” Peter answered. “A very fine vintage, too.” 

“That’s right, we’ve let it age three whole days this time!” Stiles volunteered.

“Three days? That was a Tuesday! I appreciate any booze made on a Tuesday.” She took a sip and only barely held herself back from coughing on the fumigating burn. “Or a Wednesday,” she continued as soon as she could.

“Personally I’ll drink anything made on a Thursday or Friday,” Stiles said. 

“Sunday through Monday are also very fine days to drink,” Peter added, taking a sip of his own. “But tell us about your new idea.”

“Oh! Oh, boys, I’m guaranteed a Section Eight this time,” Malia said eagerly, holding up the dog collar proudly. “I’ve decided that maybe my problem all along is that I’ve been saying I’m a  _ coyote. _ Coyotes are wild, see? They’re killers! That’s exactly what the army wants, even if it comes in the form of a crazy lady who thinks she’s a were-coyote.” She started twirling the dog collar around her finger. “But a  _ dog? _ A docile, loving labrador? What use is that to the army?” 

“Your logic is flawless,” Peter agreed, taking a bigger sip. 

“Exactly,” she continued, all business. “So I need one of you to take a picture of me in this collar, playing fetch. Maybe getting a belly rub too. Actually, if I’m sending this all the way President Truman, we better get another picture of me peeing on a bush too.” 

“I hope you have some spare fatigues with you if you’re going that direction.”

Malia scoffed. 

“Since when do retrievers wear pants? I’m wearing the collar, and only the collar.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and grabbed Stiles’ camera off his bedside. “Come on Stilinski, I need your artistic eye for this one!” and headed out of the tent. 

Stiles looked at Peter and shrugged, finishing his own drink. 

“Guess I’m the photography director of Truman’s peep show. I’ll see you later.”

But before he could follow Malia, Peter snagged his arm. 

“Hey, wait a minute. I have a half duty this afternoon, and barring another war starting, we both should have this evening off.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. 

“So does Whittemore,” Stiles countered pointedly. 

“So meet me in the lab storage. Before dinner.” 

Stiles tried to suppress a smile. 

“What kind of activities did you have in mind?” he asked, coquettish. “Scrabble? Backgammon? Paper dolls? Witchcra-”

Peter snapped out a hand and hooked his belt loop, jerking him forward to whisper in his ear. 

_ “Meet me and find out.” _

Stiles couldn’t have stopped the grin if his life depended on it. And to be fair, it kind of did. If not his life, then definitely a court martial. So instead he took a step back, snapped a cheeky salute, and dashed after Malia. 

Peter sat back, satisfied, and went back to his letter writing. Halfway through penning a request for his nephew to send him his eyebrows for the extra warmth they could provide, Whittemore came running into the tent. 

“There’s a Korean in the camp!” he burst out. 

“What?” Peter demanded, aghast with his hand to his chest. “There’s a Korean? Here? In Korea? Of all places!” 

“That’s right!” Whittemore continued, blind to Peter’s sarcasm. “I saw him! With a gun on his back!”

Peter rolled his eyes, dropping the play-along routine before Jackson could build a fantasy about being correct for the first time in his life. 

“It’s probably one of the locals selling a few things. Or possibly an early member of the South Korean contingent that’s coming up this weekend.” 

“You old fool, that’s what they  _ want _ you to think,” Jackson sneered. “But I know better. It’s probably one of those snipers that keeps hiding in the hills, taking shots at us while we save lives-“

“While  _ some _ of us save lives.”

“-and definitely stealing our food and tent stoves!” 

“An entire stove. Under his coat probably.”

“You know how tiny they all are-”

“Malnourishment due to military interference can do that to a person.”

“-they could fit anything under a big enough coat!” Jackson finished, ignoring him.

Peter considered, and then decided that deliberate stupidity was an ailment unsuited to modern medicine, and his time would be better spent planning what he was going to do to Stiles that evening. He picked up his pen again.

“You’d better tell Major Martin.”

Jackson straightened up. 

“You’re absolutely right! She’s head nurse, she can keep an eye out for missing equipment!”

“Hm yes, we all know how The Enemy loves to sneak into our extremely armed military camp in order to take specimen jars.” 

“Right,” Jackson agreed, sarcasm once taking a moseying path right up to his face and dancing there for a moment before continuing right past him. 

Peter just sighed and shook his head as Jackson left again. 

_ Derek, _ he wrote, _ remember when I told you Beacon Hills was host to the biggest idiots in the country? Well I was right, because the only one even dumber got shipped here to Korea with me.  _

* * *

“Brrrr, boy, I’m sure glad I don’t have any of your dangly-er bits,” Malia announced vehemently as she finished brushing the snow off her elbows. 

“My ‘dangly-er bits’?” Stiles asked, halfway to a laugh. 

“Yeah!” she said, rebuttoning her coat as quickly as possible. “You know, the old pleasure lever. The sin stick. The horse you gotta see that man about. The-”

“I get it,” Stiles interrupted. “Unfortunately, I get it.”

Malia shrugged, continuing to layer back up as they started walking back to camp, camera still in Stiles’ hand. 

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t want anything that important just hanging out where Jack Frost might go nipping.” 

“Most people, dangly-er bits or not, don’t find themselves in  _ just _ a dog collar in the Korean snow, looking for a Section Eight discharge,” Stiles pointed out. “And as for Jack Frost and his tendency to nip, well, that really depends on your kink now doesn’t it?” 

Malia raised a lascivious eyebrow. 

“Does it?” 

“I’ve just documented you peeing on a bush and playing fetch, Malia. If you wanna talk kinks, it’s going to be a long and confusing conversation.” 

Malia laughed and snatched the film roll from him, dashing away toward her tent. 

“I’m taking these into Tokyo tomorrow to get them developed! Wish me luck for an understanding darkroom jockey!” 

Stiles just shook his head and went back to his own tent to dry out his socks. 

Peter was gone on rounds, and Jackson was likely off filing four or five complaints, but Liam passed by.

“Mail’s here!” 

“Oh good! Did anyone send me a furnace?” 

“Um,” Liam flipped through the letters, a furrow in his brow, “no, I don’t think so.” 

“Well, thanks for checking,” Stiles said. “Come in and warm up for a minute.” 

“Oh, thanks sir,” Liam said gratefully. He set the pile of mail on a table and began to warm his hands next to the stove, sighing with relief. Stiles went over and poked through the letters. 

Fighting a yawn, Liam said, “There’s one for you, and two for Captain Hale, and one for Major Whittemore.”

“Peter’s always been an overachiever.” 

Stiles pulled the specified post out, tucking his own and Peter’s letters into his coat before picking up Jackson’s. He held it up to the light. 

Squinting, he said, “Hm, it appears Major Whittemore’s practice is thriving without his presence.”

“I know I sure like a doctor I don’t have to see,” Corporal Dunbar muttered, eyes glazed as he huddled near the warmth. 

Stiles waited a beat. 

Liam’s eyes flew open, sputtering as he quickly backtracked, “Not that I don’t like you! Or doctors in general! Just that, if you go to a doctor it’s ‘cause you’re sick, and I don’t wanna be sick-”

“It’s fine, Liam,” Stiles said, laughing. “I get it. Most people don’t have warm fuzzy memories of the person pointing needles at them.” 

Liam gave a weakly relieved laugh and finally abandoned the heat of the stove. Gathering up the rest of the mail pile, he said bye to Stiles and continued to deliver mail around the camp. Stiles sat back, reading the letter from his dad as his socks toasted in front of the stove. By the time he read  _ Don’t forget to duck the bullets. Love you kiddo- Dad, _ they were completely dry. 

Stiles checked his watch. About twenty minutes to dinner. 

Maybe it was time to head over to the lab storage and see what kind of fun could be had. 

* * *

“Captain Hale, have you noticed any missing equipment?” 

Peter glanced up from the arm wound he was checking, to see Head Nurse Martin, who was documenting a patient’s blood pressure on his chart. 

“The only thing I’ve noticed missing around here is Jackson’s mental acuity,” he answered. “Although I’m not actually sure you can call it ‘missing’ if it never existed in the first place.” Lydia looked up from the chart, pinning him with a frigid stare. 

“Major Whittemore is the only member of this outfit who  _ cares _ about  _ regulations. _ It would benefit you as a military doctor to remember that.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. The well known benefit of seeing a Korean and immediately going feral over the exact amount of petri dishes we have. That’s one of the first lessons in medical school.” 

Lydia sharply snapped the clipboard back into place at the foot of the bed, glaring at Peter all the while. 

“Can’t you ever take anything seriously?!”

“No, I had a serious-ectomy as a child.”

Lydia huffed and moved on to the next bed. 

“You’re damn lucky you have Major Whittemore to take on these security concerns, since you’re clearly too childish to do it.” 

_ “Security concerns,” _ Peter scoffed. “He saw a single Korean with a gun. If you hadn’t noticed, we’ve been hanging out with a few South Koreans for the last year or so, most of whom carry guns. And the ones who aren’t fighting also carry guns, because the rest of us don’t always shoot in the right direction. You remember, like that time Jackson shot me in the leg?”

“That bullet barely grazed you,” Lydia replied dismissively, looking down at her patient. 

“Oh Lydia, your concern warms me heart and soul, and a few other places too,” Peter said with an eyebrow wiggle. Lydia rolled her eyes and went back to work. 

Peter finished rewrapping the arm of the unconscious soldier and checked his watch. 

“Well, if you feel equipped to fully take over, my barely grazed leg and I are done with our shift.” 

Lydia waved a dismissive hand. 

“Goodbye, Doctor Hale, feel free to let the door hit you in the grazed leg on your way out.” 

“You wound me Lydia! Wait, no, that was Jackson.” 

“Get out.” 

Peter left patient recovery with a spring in his step, and headed straight toward the lab storage. 

It was dark in the room, a labyrinth of shadows created by the various shelves and piles of equipment. Peter flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. A slow smile crept across his face. Stiles must have gotten there early. 

Silently, he crept around the boxes, using the scant light from the door window to look for unusual shapes. The sharp angles of boxes slid out from the blue black of the shadows as he inched along, nothing out of the ordinary-

“TAKE THAT YOU COMMIE SCUM!”

Peter stumbled forward as someone launched themselves at his back, latching on with an arm around his neck. Reacting solely on instinct, he broke the grip on his neck and flung the person over his shoulder, pinning them roughly to the shelf in front of him. 

“Let me go!! ENEMY! ENEMY IN THE CAMP!”

Peter paused as the frantic yelling pierced his eardrum- very familiar frantic yelling. 

He moved his head to the side to allow the light from the door window to fall on his captive’s face. 

“God fucking damn it Jackson, what the hell are you doing in here?” he demanded. 

Jackson’s yelling paused for a moment. 

“Hale? Is that you? I can’t see anything in the dark.” 

“Yes, that’s generally what happens when you tamper with the lights, idiot. I assume you were the one who took them out.”

“Well I didn’t want the enemy to see me either!” Jackson protested. 

“There is no ‘enemy’ around here, you moron. There are just doctors and nurses and Koreans, who live here because we’re in  _ Korea.” _

“I’m  _ telling _ you-”

Peter stilled, fully ignoring Jackson as he perceived movement behind the shelf to which he had the idiot pinned. He strained his eyes, trying to make out what was back there. He still thought Jackson was a moron, but if an animal had gotten into the storage…

Suddenly a soft puff of air blew in his face.

He smiled. 

Jackson paused in his ranting. 

“What the hell are you smiling at, creep?” he demanded.

“He’s smiling at how stupid you look, Jacky Baby,” came the whisper from behind the shelf. Jackson suddenly screeched in fear, launching himself away from the shelf as Peter finally released him from his hold. There was the sound of frantic stumbling and shelves rattling, and then light filled the room. 

Stiles stepped out from behind the shelf, one eyebrow raised. 

“Having clandestine meetings in the lab storage, are we Jackson? My my, what would Mrs. Whittemore say?” 

Jackson’s face turned a mottled pink as he took in the sight of Peter and Stiles standing shoulder to shoulder. 

“Clandes- my- I’m trying to catch the North Korean!! What are you two doing in here?!” 

“What are we, doctors, doing here, in the lab storage?” Stiles clarified. 

“The lab storage where we, doctors, store equipment for medical work?” Peter continued. 

“The lab storage where we, doctors, store equipment for medical work done by doctors?” Stiles finished. He paused a moment, looking between the three of them. “I haven’t a clue.” 

Peter laughed. 

“You’re a couple of clowns, you know that? I’m trying to  _ protect-” _

“There is no North Korean in the camp, Jackson,” Peter said with a roll of his eyes. 

“There is too, and I’m staying right here with all our valuable stuff until I catch him!” Jackson insisted. 

Peter and Stiles looked at each other. 

“You know what? That’s a great idea,” Stiles said cheerfully. “A perfect idea. You’re the most diligent of all of us, Whittemore. You stay right here, and I bet once you capture him you’ll make Lieutenant Colonel in no time.” 

Jackson’s eyes brightened. 

“You think so?” 

“Absolutely. Peter and I will go back to the tent and make sure your shoes are shined and ready for the promotion, alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah that sounds like a great idea!” He hesitated a moment, and then said, “I think I’ll leave the lights on this time, though.” 

“Wise choice,” Peter agreed, clapping a hand on his shoulder as they left. His fingers slid from Jackson’s arm down the handle on the lab storage door, pulling it open… and then silently twitching the lock into place as he closed it behind them, with Jackson on the other side.

The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitched up as he caught the movement. Peter just looked at him innocently. 

“Looks like we have the tent all to ourselves.” 

“At least until Lydia needs something from storage,” Stiles reminded him. 

“You know Lydia. Horrible taste in men, but extremely efficient as a nurse. She has everything she’ll need for the next two hours, and she won’t restock until the end of her shift.” 

The smile hiding in the corner of Stiles’ mouth grew across his lips. 

“Well. We’d better go make sure Jackson’s shoes are shined,” he said lightly. 

“Oh is that the slang for it now?” 

Stiles just laughed and put on his coat for the trek across camp. 

As soon as the door to their tent slapped shut behind them, Peter pushed himself into Stiles’ space. Stiles welcomed him in, bringing his hands up to touch his face before remembering that they were still covered in gloves. With a huff of frustration he tried to get one off, becoming desperate enough to tug if off with his teeth. Peter laughed, leaning forward to nudge his nose into the skin behind Stiles’ ear. 

As the coats and sweaters came off they pressed closer to each other, the warmth of skin thawing them in a way that couldn’t be found anywhere else during the Korean winter. As soon as they were both bare, Peter pulled Stiles back toward his cot, snuffing out the light on his way down. 

The darkness closed around them, going unnoticed as they closed in around each other. 

* * *

A while later, they still lay wrapped up in each other, both for warmth and comfort. 

“Do you think we’ll ever miss this old cot once we finally get back home?” Peter asked idly, dragging his fingertips up and down Stiles’ spine. 

“This cot? This cot that we’re lying on right now? With the bar jammed in my ribs?” Stiles clarified.  _ “I  _ think that once this war is over, we should start another one against whoever made this cot. Once we get home, I want to see your skin exclusively against satin sheets. Oh, that reminds me- Liam stopped by with mail from home.” Stiles reached over and shuffled through his coat, finally pulling out Peter’s two envelopes. Peter eagerly tore one open, allowing Stiles to snuggle back onto his chest as he shook out the letter. 

“It’s from Derek,” he said, pleased, as he started reading. “He-” Peter’s voice cut off abruptly, his body suddenly going completely still. 

“Yeah, ‘he,’” Stiles agreed sleepily, debating whether or not he should take a little nap. 

“He’s been drafted.” 

Stiles’ breath hitched, now wide awake. The silence weighed heavily in the tent. 

“Fuck,” Peter whispered vehemently.  _ “Fuck.” _

“Does-” Stiles’ throat choked for a moment as he thought of the boy back in Beacon Hills. The one with ears too big for his head and shoulders too narrow to hold a gun. “Does he have any training that could keep him away from the front? Medical, flight-” 

Peter sat up, rubbing his eyes as Stiles followed him upright. 

“He- I don’t know. He’s pretty good with languages, but he doesn’t know Korean. Maybe he could learn…” His voice drifted off again, silent for a good few minutes before coming back with a vicious shout of “FUCK!” 

Stiles cautiously touched a hand to Peter’s back. When he wasn’t shrugged off, he came a little closer, moving an arm around him and pressing his lips to Peter’s bare shoulder. He said nothing. The tears in Peter’s eyes stayed there. 

“He’s eighteen,” Peter said, voice hoarse. “He’s fucking  _ eighteen.” _

“I know,” Stiles whispered. There was nothing else to say.

Eventually, they would have to move their cots apart. Eventually, Peter would have to write back to Derek. Eventually, another day would dawn, and another grenade would detonate, and another body would appear on their table, and the war would continue until the rich men in big houses decided to play a different game. 

For now, they pressed close to each other.

* * *

“He could try for a Section Eight,” Malia suggested as she poked suspiciously at the supposed pork chops. “But make sure you tell him that pretending to be a were-coyote won’t work.” 

“He should be proud to serve his country,” Jackson butt in, nose in the air. 

“He’s eighteen,” Peter growled. “He should be serving burgers to his fellow teenagers while he tries to make enough money to buy the motorcycle he’s so in love with.” 

“The price of freedom-” 

“Oh shut up,” Stiles said, losing patience and picking up Jackson’s meal tray to toss it two tables down. Jackson’s indignant shout went ignored by everyone else in the mess tent. Stiles turned back to Peter. “You said he’s good with languages right? He’ll probably be put behind a desk doing translation or something. Or maybe he’ll be made a clerk, like Liam.”

“You see just as many blown up eighteen year olds as I do, Stiles,” Peter responded, stone faced. “Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

“An idiot? Never,” Stiles denied. “This isn’t how I treat idiots. Idiots get their meal trays thrown.” He jerked his thumb over at Jackson, who was trying to gather his reconstituted potatoes from where they’d flown off the tray. “What you’re getting is a realistic portrayal of the possibilities. You already know he might end up on the front lines. I’m just trying to remind you that there are other places he could go too.”

Peter’s face softened slightly. 

“And if that’s not idiot talk, what is it?” 

“Hope talk. Like a motivational speech, but from an insane person during a war.” 

Peter huffed out a breath that might generously be termed a laugh. Stiles bumped their shoulders. They ate quietly together, for a given definition of “eat.” Mess tent food was difficult to choke down during the best of times, much less when stomach churning anxiety came in to play. 

“Alright, well, I think I’ve gotten enough calories to pay for my sins,” Stiles finally said as he tossed his tray into the return. “I’d better go do my rounds.” He looked at Peter, who was staring blankly at his mostly full tray. “I could use an extra pair of hands, you know.” 

It took Peter a moment to realize what Stiles was saying, but when he finally cottoned on, he raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

“We shipped out most of the patients this morning. If I come you’ll almost have more hands than patients.”

“We can use the extras for hand holding and skipping. Come on Soldier Doctor, let’s go.”

“Excuse you, that’s Doctor Soldier,” Peter said, finally getting up to return his own tray. 

As they walked over to the hospital room, Liam came running up to them, puffing beneath layers of scarves. 

“Hey! Hey, Captain Hale!” 

“It’s Peter, Liam.” 

“Right, Captain Peter. Listen, Malia was telling me that your nephew got drafted, and that he’s even younger’n me, and I just wanna say that’s rotten. That’s just- it’s just- well, look, I was thinking, and I was thinking that, one of the things I thought about saying, to the draft board, even if I never got the guts to try it, but I was thinking about maybe, see, sayin’ I was a Quaker. So I could say I had religious objections. I could get one of those funny hats, like on the oatmeal box...” Liam’s voice began to peter out as he reached the end of his sentence, as if the words sounded much different on the outside of his head than they had on the inside. He chewed on his lip for a moment and then shrugged. “Just, I dunno. Somethin’ he could try.” 

Peter, meanwhile, was damn near smiling. 

“You know what Liam, that’s a fantastic idea. And it certainly couldn’t hurt.” 

Liam’s face lit up at the praise. 

“I’m glad I could help! I better go, Colonel Argent wants me to order more toilet paper.” 

Stiles furrowed his brows. 

“Don’t we have a few hundred extras in storage?” 

“Yeah, but the colonel says that even generals have to wipe their- well, you know. It makes a good bartering chip for when we need somethin’,” Liam said with a shrug. 

Peter and Stiles watched him dash off, and started heading for the hospital again. 

“Maybe we should start a religion,” Stiles said thoughtfully. “Make the core tenants peace, love, and enemas.” 

“You probably could have gotten Derek to join up until that last one.”

“But that’s how we get the Hollywood stars to join!” Stiles protested. 

Peter raised both eyebrows. 

“With enemas?”

“It worked for Kellog.” 

“Eugenics also worked for Kellog,” Peter pointed out. Stiles cringed. 

“Yeah, alright, maybe we should look somewhere other than breakfast cereals for inspiration.” 

Once they arrived at the hospital, Peter meandered around the patients, chatting here and there as Stiles checked statuses and tweaked medication. 

“What part of California are you from?” he asked a boy with his arm in a cast after a glance at his chart.

“Down south near the border,” he answered, face lighting up a bit at the chance to talk about home. “It never gets this cold there. The first time I ever saw snow was in a foxhole- I thought it was ashes!” 

Peter chuckled a little at his appalled tone. 

“Well, you’re out of the cold for now.”

“Not for long,” the boy responded miserably. “They’re sending me to Tokyo for a couple of weeks, and then right back. I guess the bullets came out of my arm nice and neat. Not that I’m not happy to be getting better,” he added hastily. “You doctors did great! I just… thought I might get to go home for this. Back where it’s warm.” The boy sighed. “I guess I should just be happy it happened when it did. This way I get to spend my birthday in Tokyo next week.” 

“How old will you be?” 

“Nineteen.”

Peter choked on the anger that filled him. 

This boy could easily be Derek in six months, just happy to be spending his birthday away from the hail of bullets. He tried to get out a sound, any sound, anything to say to this boy, but his throat remained stubbornly mute with horror.

A low soothing voice came from over Peter’s shoulder. 

“That’s the same age as Joan of Arc when her trial began.”

He looked around and saw Father Boyd, collar visible beneath his fatigues. Peter finally managed a breath.

“Same age as when her trial ended too,” Peter added, and turned back to the boy in the bed. “However, if your trip to Tokyo also ends in a burning sensation, that’ll probably mean something different, and you should come back and see us about it.”

The boy gave Peter a little confused smile and looked up at Father Boyd. 

“Hey! You’re Catholic, just like my dad!” 

“It’s something we have in common along with our titles, then,” Father Boyd said. 

“I’ll leave you two to your fathers and Fathers, then,” Peter said, getting up with a nod goodbye. 

He would have waved, but he was afraid of seeing a tremor in his own hand.

Peter spent the rest of Stiles’ shift behind the desk, alternating between thinking of ways Derek might avoid actually coming to Korea, and trying to distract himself. Just as Jackson showed up to relieve Stiles, Boyd wrapped up his conversation with the last patient and came up to the desk. 

“I heard about your nephew,” he said quietly. 

Peter rubbed his forehead.

“The speed of bullets has nothing on the speed of gossip through a M*A*S*H unit,” Peter said with a sigh. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Boyd with a tired expression. 

He liked Father Boyd. Peter was an atheist, through and through, and Boyd was respectful of that. He wasn’t interested in pushing God on anyone, but was always willing to listen to people who needed it. Peter had personally seen the soothing effects of his quiet conversation on both patients, and the other members of their unit. 

However-

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Father Boyd nodded, agreeable. 

“You certainly don’t have to, not with me or with anyone else. But you might want to do something about all the rage you’re carrying, before you end up burning yourself on it.”

Peter looked at him incredulously. 

“You want me to let go of my anger? You think I should just- be okay with my teenage nephew being drafted into war?” He lowered his voice as his focus narrowed onto the fury he was pouring into his words. “What am I  _ supposed  _ to feel about him being called up for his turn to play target for the bullets that politicians keep throwing at each other? Should I be smiling? Laughing? Am I not  _ chipper _ enough about having to feed my family to the glutton of war? Do I need to choreograph the dance steps for the generals to tap on his  _ grave?” _

By the time he was done talking, the words were hissing from his mouth, quiet and sharp, and everyone was listening. 

Father Boyd looked somber, and worst of, like he understood. But before he could say anything, Jackson spoke up, snide and offhand while looking through a chart. 

“I wouldn’t trust you to choreograph a funeral march, much less a dance.” 

Peter snapped. 

Before he knew it, Jackson was on the ground, lip bleeding beneath an angry, red, fist-shaped mark. Peter’s knuckles stung as he pulled back for another swing, only to be stopped by two pairs of hands pulling him off of Jackson. Stiles wrapped his arms around his chest, wrestling him away as Father Boyd took a closer look at Jackson’s lip.

“He’s fine,” Boyd said, glancing back at Stiles. 

“I AM NOT FINE” Jackson interrupted with a yell. 

Boyd ignored him.

“You take care of him, alright?” he continued with a tip of his head toward Peter. 

Stiles just nodded and started heading toward the door, ignoring their coats in favor of getting out.

The cold wind startled Peter enough to refocus him as they hurried to their tent. He was shaking by the time the door rattled shut behind them, though whether that was due to freezing temperature or anger, he couldn’t say. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe. Cold fingers touched the sides of his face. 

“Hey. Hey Peter. Come on Peter, look at me.”

He opened his eyes to see Stiles’ golden amber ones inches away, filled with concern. Peter wrapped his hands around Stiles’ wrists to keep them there, where he was holding Peter in place. Peter had already lost so much, with more guaranteed for the future. He felt a sharp, gut piercing gratitude that he still had Stiles.

“There you are,” Stiles said. “Right here, with me. No one else is here alright? I locked the door, it’s just us for now. Just us.” 

Just us. 

“Why are we here Stiles?” 

Stiles frowned a little in confusion.

“Because Uncle Sam sent us to time out with all the other naughty boys and girls,” he tried to joke, his tone still a little unsure. Peter shook his head. 

“I don’t give a shit about Uncle Sam. I don’t give a shit about any of this, I just want you and my family. Let’s go, Stiles. It wouldn’t even be hard. We can set up a practice in Switzerland. Buy a plane ticket for Derek first, and then your dad and the rest of my sister’s family can come too.” 

Peter’s eyes began to burn, knowing as he spoke that it would never happen, because-

“You know Derek wouldn’t do that,” Stiles said quietly. 

Peter huffed a broken little laugh, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as the first tear escaped. 

“And neither would you,” Peter added.

Stiles wiped his thumb across Peter’s cheek and said, “Maybe, but let’s not pretend it’s because I’m some kind of pillar of morality. I’d let the entire unit burn before I’d let you out of my hands. That’s part of why I stay; because you’re here.” 

“If I left, I wouldn’t be.” 

Stiles’ lips twitched up at the statement.

“True. But the other reason I stay is because… this is what I do, Peter. What  _ we _ do. We’re surgeons. We cut and sew and play God or Grim Reaper. We do it because we’re very good. We do it because until they call a ceasefire, this is where the patients are.” 

“There are patients in Switzerland too,” Peter argued half heartedly . 

“Yes, but there’s no Jackson Whittemore in Switzerland. Can you really suggest that we leave the poor defenseless soldiers here to Whittemore’s incapable hands?” 

Peter huffed derisively and then sighed. 

“I’m just… so tired.” 

Stiles slid one hand away from his face, down to his hand. 

“When I went to medical school they mentioned a cure for that one. Come on.” 

* * *

Half an hour or so later, Stiles finger combed through Peter’s hair as he slept with his head in Stiles’ lap. His hand moved slowly, feeling the warm strands beneath his fingertips. Peter’s breath hitched slightly in his sleep. 

His eyes were still red and wet. 

Stiles’ gut twisted. 

He thought again of Peter’s Switzerland plan. It wasn’t actually a plan, not really. Just a desperate man’s idea. 

Stiles knew because he thought of it himself every now and then. 

A quiet knock on the door disrupted his thoughts for a moment, but he ignored it. If it was really important they would either pick the lock or go find someone who could, and that someone would probably be Malia.

Sure enough, a moment later he heard a rattle, and then a click. Malia’s head poked through. 

“Hey Stiles,” she whispered, glancing down at Peter.

“Hey,” Stiles whispered back. She came in to stand quietly just inside the door for a moment, hands in her pockets. 

Eventually, she murmured, “Jackson talked to the Colonel. He wants to see you and Peter.” 

Stiles sighed. 

“For what it’s worth, he didn’t seem upset,” Malia volunteered. “Not anymore than usual, anyway.” 

“Thanks Malia.” 

Malia nodded, and turned to go before hesitating. 

“I know you two are… close.” The weight given to the final word made Stiles visibly tense, and Malia rushed on. “I’m just saying, I’m glad you two have each other. You deserve it. We all deserve better than this,” she gestured around the entire tent, “but… I’m just glad he has you, and you have him. Take care of him, alright?” 

Stiles nodded, throat tight, and Malia left. 

He combed through Peter’s hair a few more times, unwilling to break his sleep. 

“Hey, Peter.”

Peter’s forehead scrunched a little, and Stiles’ heart nearly broke at how adorable it was. 

“Wake up honey.”

“No.”

Stiles smiled a little.

“What if something important is happening?” 

“Mm.. you naked?”

Stiles had to suppress a laugh. 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Then nothin’ important is happening,” he mumbled. 

Stiles brushed his fingers along Peter’s temple, and reluctantly said, “Colonel Argent wants to see us.” He watched the abrupt wakefulness and return of memory cross Peter’s face. 

“I see.” Peter sat up and stretched, and Stiles immediately missed his warmth. They both straightened their clothes, Peter wiping the last of sleep from his eyes. Stiles held out Peter’s coat for him, and Peter helped wrap Stiles’ scarf around his head. 

With one last look at each other, they headed out. 

* * *

Peter sat carelessly in the chair in front of Argent’s desk, still tired in that bone deep way that comes from caring too viciously. 

Unfortunately that was the only way he knew how to care. Viciously or not at all. 

He felt Stiles come stand behind him, leaning on the back of the chair with both hands. Argent continued filling out a form. 

“Jackson came in with a split lip, saying you assaulted him,” he said, signing the bottom of the page and moving on to the next one. 

“A split lip?” Stiles interjected before Peter could dredge up the energy to answer. “I dunno Colonel, conditions are cold and dry out here. Could be his skin just cracked from talking too much.” 

The corner of Argent’s mouth twitched up. 

“Whittemore does like to run his mouth, doesn’t he. What was he talking about that caused his dry skin to take umbrage?” 

Peter spoke up. 

“My eighteen year old nephew being drafted.”

Colonel Argent’s eyes were sincere when he finally looked up from his paperwork. 

“Your kid nephew was drafted? Well shit. That’s a damn shame, Peter.”

Peter huffed a dry laugh. 

“I can’t believe you hadn’t heard about it before now. It traveled through camp quicker than that last outbreak of gastroenteritis.”

Argent let out a scoff and sat back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. 

“If I stopped to hear every piece of gossip and chewed fat that gets spit through here, I wouldn’t have time to wipe my own ass, much less get anything else done. That’s a rough one, though. You doing alright?” 

The question sounded so frank and concerned that Peter found himself answering more honestly than he’d planned. 

“I just keep imagining him on my table,” Peter said quietly. “Full of holes and torn up guts. And there’s nothing I can do about it.” Stiles’ hand silently moved from the back of the chair to his shoulder, gripping it tightly. 

Colonel Argent looked troubled. 

“Does he have any skills that could be directed somewhere other than shooting?” 

Peter just shook his head, chest tight and head full of buzzing dread. 

“That’s not true,” Stiles interjected. “You said he’s good with languages. He doesn’t speak Korean, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t learn.” 

“Good with languages, huh?” Argent rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Major Whitney over in Tokyo was telling me at the last conference that they’re putting a new decryption unit there soon. Code breaking and the like. If he’s good with languages, he might be a good fit there.” 

Peter’s head snapped up, but Argent held up a cautious hand. 

“That’s just what I heard. That doesn’t mean anyone’s interested in my word on who should be there. But… I might,  _ might _ mind you, be able to see that he gets tested for it right out of basic.”

Peter reached up and grabbed Stiles’ hand on his shoulder to steady himself. It was a dim ray of hope, but it was still a light. 

“How do we help?” Stiles asked, since Peter was clearly beyond words. “Should we round up booze rations for bribery? What can we do?” 

Colonel Argent just waved a hand. 

“Nothing, really. I’m gonna get Liam to call up Major Whitney. You just make sure the connection doesn’t get broken up by Corporal Tate chewing on the line again.” He shook his head. “That woman might not be a were-coyote, but she’s sure as hell feral. You’re dismissed, I’ll let you know how it goes.” 

Peter and Stiles hurried back to their tent, with a brief stop off to ensure that Malia wasn’t planning any new were-coyote shenanigans (“I’m still waiting for the photos to come back, and I don’t like to work on more than one insane project at a time.”)

Jackson was lying on his cot reading a four year old magazine when they got back. 

“Well?” he demanded. “When is your court martial?” 

“Oh, wouldn’t you know it? We just couldn’t get our schedules to align,” Stiles said breezily as he sprawled on his own cot. “We decided to postpone it until the weather clears up.”

“I’ve always wanted a June court martial,” Peter added as he took out a new sheet of paper and a pen. 

“You two always weasel out of any consequences,” Jackson sneered back at them with a pout. 

Stiles tilted his head back to look at Peter. 

“It’s true, we are very weasley. My cousin had a pet weasel once. It was very cute, just like us.” 

“The cutest,” Peter said sincerely, safe in the knowledge that Jackson never paid attention to anything that didn’t directly involve him.

Stiles just smiled back as they both ignored Jackson’s rant about corrupted military law. 

* * *

“Mail! Here Captain Peter, you have one.” 

The second Peter caught a glimpse of Derek’s handwriting on the outside of the letter, he lunged for it, tearing it open. Liam stumbled back a bit, shooting a startled look at Stiles, who just patted his back and led him to the door and out into the spring air. 

By the time the door closed behind him and they were alone again, Peter was holding the letter close to his face, reading intently. Stiles held still, taut as a piano wire waiting to be struck. 

A smile broke on Peter’s face. 

“He’s going to Tokyo.” 

It was like a sudden influx of oxygen had been pushed into the room. Stiles felt lightheaded with relief. He walked on jelly legs over to Peter’s cot and sat down, with Peter following him right after, still reading the letter. 

“He’s going to be working on better encryption or something, he says he can’t be too specific. But he’s pretty much just going to be working out of an office in Tokyo. He won’t be near the fighting.” 

Peter finished reading, finally handing the letter over to Stiles to read. 

“We owe Argent about twelve bottles of the best scotch we can find,” Stiles said as he scanned the paper for details. “Hundred year old scotch. Scotch that could make even the hardest man cry for love.” 

Peter laughed, weakly rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“If he gets twelve bottles of scotch, then I must owe you something like five hundred.” 

Stiles scrunched up his forehead. 

“Why would you owe me anything? Colonel Argent was the one who got him the interview.” 

“Yes, but I never would have talked to Argent about it if it weren’t for you. And these last couple of months- hell, for the year since we got here, you’ve been what’s held me together.” Peter looked at him with a brutally honest expression. 

Stiles just looked back at him. 

“Couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been holding me together right back.” 

Peter smiled crookedly. 

“I guess we’ll share the scotch then.” 

“Seventy-thirty?” Stiles said, a smile of his own inching up his mouth. 

“Oh, you deserve more than thirty percent, why don’t we do sixty-forty?” Peter replied. Stiles laughed. 

“Done deal. Let me know when you find it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Says Fuck: Peter, Stiles, Lydia
> 
> Said Fuck Exactly Once: Malia, Jackson
> 
> Can Say Fuck, But Chooses Not To: Argent
> 
> Legally Cannot Say Fuck: Liam


End file.
